


surrender to acceptance

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Image, Body Worship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Insecure Martin Blackwood, M/M, Martin Has Stretch Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 14:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19275616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: “Huh? Oh. Sorry.” He’s quiet for a second, and then Martin sees him frown, barely. “You know what. Nevermind. I’m not.” His hand settles back at Martin’s hip, thumb passing through the silvery lines there. “Tell your insecurities to fuck off, I like your stretch marks.”





	surrender to acceptance

Tim’s tracing the lines of his stretch marks again. It’s something that, even after _everything,_ Martin still can’t quite get used to.

It still manages to make him vaguely uncomfortable, self-conscious about his body in ways that he knows he’ll never be able to shake; he’s spent the better part of the last eighteen or so years of his life being hard on himself. Insecurity had come at an early age. It isn’t like he can just whisk that all away because Timothy Stoker decided to have sex with him… although, it does help, a little. A lot.

Even though Tim paying attention to the marks still makes him squirm.

“Tim…”

“Huh? Oh. Sorry.” He’s quiet for a second, and then Martin sees him frown, barely. “You know what. Nevermind. I’m not.” His hand settles back at Martin’s hip, thumb passing through the silvery lines there. “Tell your insecurities to fuck off, I like your stretch marks.”

The embarrassment starts to build before Martin can even stutter a response. “There’s nothing to like…”

“Oh, there’s plenty of things to like.” Tim’s so serious that it sets the blush glowing at Martin’s cheeks. Or maybe it’s just because his hand, so intent on stroking the stretch marks, is dangerously close to settling about his arse. Bit of a toss-up. Probably still the stretch marks, though, since Martin likes to blow tiny things out of proportion.

“It’s just a bunch of old scars,” he mutters, and Tim snorts into his pillow.

“Yeah, and I’ve got a bunch of _new_ scars, if we wanna get technical here, but you’ve got no problem preening over the trypophobic nightmare halfway across my back. Sooo…”

“That’s different,” Martin protests, because it is.

“It’s really not.”

“That was Prentiss, that wasn’t– you couldn’t help that. Mine are just… adolescent growth spurts and bad life choices,” he mutters.

“Bad life choice to work at the Institute, too,” Tim points out, and Martin can’t even argue, really. It’s just…

“It’s not the same,” he says, hopefully with finality, but Tim’s moved on to tracing the marks at his waist and somehow, Martin doesn’t think he’s going to win this argument this time. Not that he ever does.

Tim does surprise him, though, when he says “it’s not.” And then promptly blows the whole thing to hell by continuing, “yours are prettier,” and propping himself up enough to mouth at one on Martin’s arm.

Martin inhales so sharply that he coughs afterwards. Hell, speaking of unattractive. “Tim,” he protests, halfhearted, and feels him grin against his bicep.

“I’ll stop when you say your stretch marks are prettier than my scars,” Tim retorts, hand sliding back to Martin’s waist. It settles for a minute, and then his fingers are crawling _dangerously_ close to the fleshy, tickly bits at his sides.

Martin barely has time to gasp out a _“don’t”_ before Tim _is,_ digging his fingers into his skin to properly tickle him. All the while still mouthing at the goddamn stretch marks on his arms. It’s an _assault,_ and Martin actually does shriek before he can stop himself.

“Tim!”

“No feeling bad on my watch, Martin. Not in my bed.”

“That’s–” He gasps, and thinks he kicks Tim’s shin on accident. “– take your own advice–! Your scars–”

“I’m not _feeling bad,_ I’m just _saying.”_

“So am– Tim, _stop,”_ he laughs, and writhes in the blankets. “Get off, you dick–!” Yes, it’s in good fun, but he’s going to _actually_ die and cause of death is going to be ‘Tim Stoker wouldn't stop  _tickling_ him–’

“Just agree that I’m right,” Tim says, all stupidly singsong and Martin can’t breathe for laughing but still manages to, somehow.

_“Fine,”_ he gasps, and grabs Tim’s hand when he finally _stops tickling him. “Jesus,_ Tim–”

“Was that so hard?”

He groans, throws his arm over his eyes. He still peeks out, though, watching Tim smile and look all smug. It’s worth it to see Tim look like that. He doesn’t smile enough these days. It’s all the more beautiful when he does, since they’ve all had all these terrible reasons to _not_ smile lately.

_“Yeah.”_ Martin puffs another breath and tries to still his racing heart. “Yeah, thanks, it was, actually; I can hardly _breathe,_ you know.”

“Oh, you’re really gonna love what I’m about to do next.”

“Wha–” He cuts off as Tim _licks_ at a stretch mark on his arm, and barely has time to let out another short noise of shock and displeasure before Tim dives beneath the blankets and gets his mouth against the ones on his waist. _“Tim!”_

It wouldn’t be the first time Tim’s taken an interest in kissing those marks. It probably won’t even be the last time, and it still manages to fluster Martin every. single. time. No matter what Tim says, he’s probably always going to be self-conscious and– w–well–

Damn. It is hard to focus with Tim kissing against those scars like that, though.

“Tim, you– would you _stop_ that?” he manages, but it’s weak enough this time, and just as halfhearted.

_“Nope._ I’m on the hunt now, tiger.”

Tim’s breath is warm, and the heat sweeps up the rest of Martin’s body. _Tiger stripes._ Somehow, it’s less daunting when it’s Tim referencing them. Somehow, it’s… _good,_ when Tim calls them that. Or maybe it’s just the kisses. Or maybe it’s actually both. God, he can’t think.

“Tim, you– Tim.” He catches his hand at the blankets and jerks them aside. “Tim. What are you _doing?”_

“Loving you.”

Martin groans, and throws his hands up to cover his face. “Tiiiiiiiiiim.”

Another kiss. A tiny hummed noise of question, or contentment, or maybe just happiness. His lips keep up along the stretch marks, and then lower, and lower, past the ones on his hip, and down to his thigh.

Oh. The embarrassment’s turning to a flush of a different kind. He can’t help another breath, and he squirms helplessly as Tim’s five o'clock shadow tickles his thighs. “Tim…” It’s the only thing it seems like he’s able to say right now. He _really_ can’t think. “What are you…”

“Didn’t I–” One kiss. Two kisses. “– just say?” Three. Four. “Loving you.” He pauses, for a second, and then turns his face to nuzzle along Martin’s groin. “Making love to you,” he adds, and mouths at the outline of Martin’s cock.

“Oh, God.” He drops a hand into Tim’s hair, not exactly to… keep him there, but not necessarily to pull him away, either. “Tim…”

“I’ll make sure you feel good about yourself,” Tim says. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make you believe it.”

“I–” Martin swallows. “This– this might be helping,” he squeaks, and squirms again at the movement of Tim’s mouth on him. He hadn’t been _hard_ hard, but he’d been getting there, and now he definitely _is_ there, straining against his boxers as Tim teases him through them. “At least for now.”

“Oh, so I’ll just have to blow you regularly to give you self-confidence.” Tim smiles up at him, so soft and carefree that Martin’s breath catches in his throat for a couple reasons this time. “I see.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind if that was all it took,” Tim says, and tugs Martin’s boxers down. “I’m more than happy to provide.”

There’s no other pause before Tim wraps his lips around him to take him in, and Martin still makes some embarrassingly shrill noise as Tim starts to suck. He properly tangles his fingers in his hair, and fists his other into the blankets, and is already giving off a commentary of _“oh God”_ over and over because yep, he’s never been good at being quiet and he’s never gonna get any better at that, either.

Tim doesn’t seem to mind, though. He just swallows him down until his nose brushes against his pubes, neatly trimmed but still sort of unattractive in all their ginger glory– God, the red hair, he hates it sometimes. And being so pale and having all those stupid _freckles_ speckled across his body and the weight he still carries that he’ll never get rid of–

Tim garbles a noise around his cock, muffled but unmistakeably _“Martin”_ in that chastising tone he seems to get a lot, and he feels the vibration of the noise all the way through his cock.

“W– _What?”_ he demands, clawing at the blankets. “Don’t _do_ that–”

He comes off his cock with a truly filthy noise and a line of saliva that shouldn’t be hot but is. “You’re thinking too much again,” Tim says, and wipes a knuckle beneath his lips. “My mouth’s on your cock and you’re thinking too much, _c’mon.”_

“S–Sorry.” _Habit,_ he doesn’t say.

He only gets an eyeroll in reply before Tim goes back at it. It’s only an embarrassingly short amount of tongue before he’s snapping off a warning, and Tim pulls back in just enough time so that his come splatters across his face. Martin’s left reeling as he stares at Tim, who’s staring at him from where he’s still nestled between his legs.

“Told you you’re beautiful,” Tim says matter-of-factly, and squeezes his hip.

“Uh.” What are words. Martin huffs softly and relinquishes his hold on Tim’s hair. “I mean… so are you.” His hand’s clumsy, but he manages to swipe his thumb through a streak of white along Tim’s cheek.

“Ha.” Tim catches his hand, and turns his head to kiss his palm. “You didn’t disagree. Well _done,_ Martin.”

He laughs nervously, realizing he really _hadn’t_ disagreed about himself, but it had just been _natural_ to compliment Tim, too. And, well… the insecurities really aren’t going away in the span of a few minutes or days or weeks (months, years, probably) but Tim really does… make him feel good.

“Thanks,” he says awkwardly, and tugs Tim up so he can kiss at his face. At the mess on his face. The one he’d put there… God. Martin somehow manages to blush even _further_ before he moves his mouth to kiss at his lips. And then, a little quieter, “… thanks.”

“Yeah.” Tim settles in next to him again, pulling the blankets snug around them. “Don’t do that shit to yourself. You can’t love me and all my issues and be surprised that someone loves you, too. And that someone’s me,” he added, rolling to face him, “so don’t forget it.”

“I’ll…” He takes a breath, and shifts over so he’s able to rest his forehead against Tim’s. “… try.”

“Good. All we can do nowadays, huh?”

“Yeah…” He watches him, just for a minute now that he’s closed his eyes and seemingly settled back in to sleep. He does think he’s beautiful. He always had been, before the scars and he's even moreso now. Martin’ll stand by that. It’s… harder to apply that logic to himself, though.

Still, he needs to try. It doesn’t feel very good to know it upsets Tim when he’s hard on himself, either. And they… really… _really_ have bigger problems than stretch marks and freckles. So he’s gonna try to remind himself of that bit, too. Remind himself of the way Tim always looks when he's telling him he's beautiful.

“You’re still thinking too much, dammit.”

“It’s good!” Martin splutters. “It’s good stuff, I swear.” He clutches at Tim's hand on top of the mattress, and holds onto it for dear life. “I just… really love you, okay?”

“Love you, too, tiger.” Tim tangles their fingers together. “Leave being defeatist to me.”

“Uh uh. We both gotta be optimists.”

“Yeah, okay, true.” Tim squeezes his hand, and Martin grins, silly and satisfied.

He settles in to sleep, and basks in the warmth of this gorgeous man at his side.

 

_“Insecurity is a side effect of loving too much but receiving too little in return.”_  


**Author's Note:**

> I just needed Tim to shower him in the love he deserves...... make him feel good....... god..........


End file.
